Sunny Days
by darthsydious
Summary: Saturday Mornings on Baker Street. Established John/Molly. Matilda and Sherlock being adorable.


It was not unusual for Molly or John to wake up on the weekend, go into Matilda's room and find a note on her bed from Sherlock, usually scribbled in his hellish chicken scratches, informing them that it was Saturday.

Saturday meant early morning cartoons. It also meant that Sherlock would come up to 221a, fetch Matilda and bring her down to 221b. In their pyjamas they'd sit side by side on the couch, watching children's television until Sherlock decided he'd been patient enough and then insist Matilda help him with his experiment.

"Not until after Sesame Street." It didn't matter what he offered her, she would not budge until she saw Big Bird.

"This is grotesque!" Sherlock insisted.

"No it isn't, it's lovely," Matilda replied. She had a brilliant mind, but she was also very much her mother's daughter. Like Molly, Matilda liked nice things and nice people. Sherlock had long ago stopped trying to convince the five year old that it was not, in fact, a real street, and no one in the world was ever that polite, nor birds that big.

"What about ostriches?"

"That is not what Big Bird is…I am not even certain what species 'Big Bird' is." Matilda shrugged indifferently. She didn't care.

"Never-the-less," she said, sounding out each syllable, causing Sherlock to smirk. "Ostriches are large birds, so you saying that birds are not as big as Big Bird is moot."

"Rue the day I started teaching you anything," Sherlock muttered, and Matilda's response was to blow a raspberry at him. Oh she was a Watson, all right.

Finally, the show would be over, and Matilda would climb down off the couch. Sherlock would braid her hair (yes, he knew how to braid hair, and actually did so, mostly because of an incident involving a small, but containable fire that Molly and John still knew nothing about) to keep out of her face. Sherlock didn't mind that she was not as quick with handing him beakers, or that she asked so many questions when he was thinking about his work. He enjoyed seeing the wonder in Matilda's eyes when he explained what was happening on the table. She was happy to watch him work, happy to hand him pliers or fetch cleaning supplies or the jug of bleach on top of the fridge. _Why did John always put it up there? It's almost impossible for Matilda to reach- oh._

"You do know it's bad for you," Sherlock said.

"What?"

"Bleach. Don't drink it."

"I _know_ Uncle Sherlock," Matilda gave him a look that told him he was an idiot for thinking she was stupid enough to drink it. "And I know not to touch anything under the sink, or anything in your fridge."

"Why nothing in my fridge?" Sherlock asked.

"Because Ma says you put your body parts on the top shelf and food on the second."

"Hm," he quirked an eyebrow. "To be fair, I don't think I keep any food on the shelves," he said with a shrug. His stomach growled noisily and Matilda looked at him.

"You're hungry."

"Nope. Busy. I'll eat later." She scrambled down off the chair she was standing on to be closer to his height.

"I can make beans!" she said. "And toast and I know how to cook bacon." Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. Before he could tell her she wasn't allowed to use the stove, she had scurried off, hurrying upstairs.

She returned a moment later with a can of beans, a loaf of bread and half a package of bacon.

"Any eggs?"

"No…" he was still watching her, somewhat surprised. "The stove is-"

"Gas, I know," she cranked the dial, pushed the button and the blue flame sprang up. Skillet on the burner, she laid slices of bacon down. She found a clean pot in the sink and poured the beans into it, setting that on the next burner. Standing on a chair in her footy-pyjamas, Matilda Watson happily made breakfast. Sherlock, certain this could turn into a Molly or John shouting at him, stayed nearby to be sure she didn't burn herself.

"I do it all the time," she insisted.

"Does your mother know?"

"No…"

"Well it isn't as if we've never kept anything from her before," he shrugged and waved for her to carry on.

Next Saturday when Sherlock went to fetch Matilda, she grabbed a carton of eggs, another package of bacon and a ripe tomato.

"Beans?" she whispered. He retrieved the can he'd taken from the cupboard in his pocket. Arms full, they slipped back downstairs to 221b. Molly didn't notice if food was missing from the refrigerator, Sherlock was always coming and going, sneaking little nibbles here and there. He was worse than a mouse sometimes.

It was almost six months before John and Molly found out Matilda was cooking breakfast for Sherlock. The morning they found out, they were having a lie-in, dozing in the morning sun that streamed through the bedroom window. They both woke to the smell of bacon frying.

"Sherlock's in the kitchen," she murmured.

"Mm," he tugged her closer, shutting his eyes. "Long as the smoke alarm doesn't go off, we're fine,"

_BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP_

"You always want to tempt fate, don't you," she snapped, rolling out of bed, John close behind. Sliding to a halt in the kitchen, they found Matilda waving a cookie sheet at the smoke detector, Sherlock opening the front door.

"What?" they asked, as if it were entirely normal for a five year old in footie pyjamas and a Consulting Detective (also in pyjamas, sans…footies) both wearing goggles and rubber gloves cooking breakfast.

"Matilda what is on your face?" she was smudged with something black and sticky.

"Grease," Sherlock said. "Filling the grease-gun downstairs,"

"Why are you up here? It's Saturday," John said.

"Uncle Sherlock was out of eggs," Matilda was turning the bacon in the pan; Molly went to inspect to see that she was being careful of the fat. "And Da always says eggs are important,"

"What set off the smoke alarm?" John asked. Sherlock and Matilda pointed to each other. John and Molly both looked at the Consulting Detective, already knowing who.

"Your toaster is inefficient." Sherlock sniffed.

They all looked at the smoking, fizzling appliance. John sighed.

"Tilly, will you please run down to Uncle Sherlock's and get his toaster?"

"Oi!"

"No, you broke ours, so we are using yours until you replace it," John said. "I need my toast in the morning."

"Humph."

When it came to Matilda and Sherlock, sometimes it was best to limit the questions asked. So long as nothing was burnt, broken beyond repair, or dangerous to the occupants of the house, at any rate. Molly helped Matilda finish breakfast, praising her afterwards.

"How did you know to make breakfast?" Molly asked as they set the table, calling the boys over.

"It wasn't very hard, and Uncle Sherlock was hungry, what was I supposed to do?"

"What indeed?" John asked, grinning with a shake of his head. Trust Sherlock to get a five year old to make his breakfast rather than cook it himself. Sherlock paid them no attention, whistling to himself as he ate.


End file.
